


Adrift

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: Curse of Strahd (Dungeons & Dragons), Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Dubious Consent, Loyalty, M/M, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27873034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: It never occurs to him to argue.
Relationships: Rahadin/Strahd von Zarovich
Comments: 7
Kudos: 43
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cadmean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadmean/gifts).



“Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.”

The road is dark; the black carriage rattles on stones and branches, quakes with the wind. The abbey is left behind them, choked in mist, smothered like the protests of the Abbot in the face of Strahd’s displeasure. Mild, but pointed. The man has been assisting outsiders again. Overstepping the line of his master’s tolerance and passing dangerously close to treachery.

He won’t be doing it again.

In the carriage, Strahd’s expression is pensive. The hand on his knee taps a rhythmic prelude to rage. Seated opposite, Rahadin doesn’t move. He feels himself fading into obscurity, black clothes on black velvet seats, the weak moonlight an irrelevancy. Hidden from most. Not hidden from Strahd.

“I can return in the morning,” Rahadin says. “All men break when the right pressure is applied. Holy men are no exception. Let me break this one for you.”

Strahd turns away from the window, smile as sharp as the canines that split it. “Well, aren’t we demanding this evening.”

“He offended you.”

“Did I say that?”

“You called him faithless.”

“Did I?” Strahd leans forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. “I thought I asked you a question.”

It’s to be a game, then. The hound and the hart. Rahadin isn’t much good at games; Escher would suit this one better. But he sighs, and obliges. “My apologies, Master. What was it?”

“The road grows darker, Rahadin. Should I expect your farewell any time soon?” Bitterness makes its mark at the edges of Strahd’s smile. His eyes have no colour to them at all. He watches, unblinking, for Rahadin to flinch first.

Rahadin bows his head. “No. Not in nearly five hundred years. Not in five hundred more. Next question.” The claws bite into the delicate flesh under his chin, stamping half-moons into his cheek. Rahadin allows his head to be lifted. He makes a very poor target for Strahd to hunt; there’s no fear in him to feed this particular craving. In this, he fails in his duties.

Whatever Strahd sees in his expression, it seems to amuse. “As I said; _demanding_. I’m not sure it suits you.”

“I am whatever you need from me.” He speaks against the fingers that trace his mouth, claws sharp enough to sting. They press between his lips, silencing him; the temptation to bite down bites at him in turn. He meets Strahd’s unblinking gaze and finds dark anticipation. A faithless man would bite. Rahadin is still. He lets them touch his tongue, caress it, a bastard half-kiss only he partakes in. And then they pull back, a stray edge of claw drawing blood from his lower lip as it passes.

Finally, Rahadin exhales. There’s no shake to it. He waits, a shadow in the ill-lit carriage, as Strahd lifts one bloody finger to what passes for moonlight, inspecting it with the connoisseur’s discerning eye.

“Not exactly the youthful vintage you tend to favour,” Rahadin says. He manages humour about as well as fear, and the comment falls flat, dying unremarked between them. His blood on his master’s hands. It throws him. It always throws him just a little off-kilter, like an organ almost out of tune. He can’t take his eyes off it. Can’t keep from licking guiltily at the cut, small though it is. The taste is not one he enjoys. He watches Strahd inspect his finger, the dark red stain, and waits to be partaken of.

He’s holding his breath, he realises. Leaning forward in his seat. Pulled, lured, coaxed closer. There are cobwebs in the edges of his usually-clear mind. He blinks, and feels the spell break.

“I wondered when you’d notice,” Strahd says. “Faster than most, as usual; I applaud you.” He wipes the blood off on his coat, careless. “Charm requires imagination in the subject. A certain willingness to be cast adrift, unmoored.”

“That doesn’t appeal. My bond is to you, and the mooring will not untie.”

“A faith that defies farewells.” Strahd settles back against the velvet seat, hands on his thighs, one no longer blood-smeared finger twitching in a beckoning motion. “I suppose it’s not impossible; in you, I find it almost plausible. Fine. Let’s see that theory tested. On your knees, Rahadin. Show me just how far your faith stretches.”

It never occurs to him to argue, though the wooden floor is a less comfortable choice than the velvet upholstery, and the rattle of the carriage rattles him in turn. He’s not a small creature. Strahd’s knees frame his shoulders, silk catching on studded leather, his chin almost in his master’s lap. He watches Strahd slowly unlace his breeches and makes an attempt at dispassion.

It’s a game. That’s what it is. It will not matter long, and it barely matters now. It doesn’t _matter_ that Strahd has innumerable brides and grooms with nothing better to do than this, while Rahadin’s duties are complex, requiring of skill and not of…debasement.

He is what Strahd requires of him.

“You’re not happy about this, are you?” Strahd says. He cups Rahadin’s cheek with a cold, uncharacteristically gentle hand. The other frees his cock, flushed and hard.

“My happiness is irrelevant.”

“Yes,” Strahd agrees. “It is. Whenever you’re ready; I _am_ ancient, but I don’t have all night.”

He’s cruel about it; maybe he expects Rahadin’s skill to match that of his spouses, or his ingenuity to extend to knowing how to relax his throat, where to seat his tongue, what to do with his lips. In this, Rahadin fails. He chokes around Strahd’s length, too deep and too soon. It demands a kind of submission he doesn’t know how to give. Gripping Strahd’s thighs tight but never tight enough to bruise, Rahadin tries to appeal with his eyes.

_A little slower. A moment or two of your patience, and I will match you, I’ll provide what you need. Just wait._

He doesn’t. Rahadin feels saliva pool in his mouth, smearing over his lips and cheeks as Strahd takes him relentlessly. He can’t breathe. He’s astonished to feel the tears begin to form in his eyes, and appalled to find that he can’t dismiss them. There’s a form of surrender to bowing his head, hiding them from his lord.

He’s better than this. He is more. This is duty and he obeys.

“Oh, you are _not_ happy about this,” Strahd says, gleeful and not in the least out of breath. “My poor, unwavering friend. I’m almost sorry to do this to you. You do realise that I’d let you stop if you truly wanted?” He mocks; laughter in his tone, the weak moonlight catching his teeth. He has a hand on the back of Rahadin’s head, forbidding retreat.

Rahadin has never retreated in his life. He digs his fingers hard into the skin of Strahd’s thighs.

“Can’t say I didn’t offer,” Strahd says. “I am nothing if not fair- and you are as faithful as ever. For both our sakes, I’m glad it’s so.”

His fingers tighten in Rahadin’s hair, dragging his jaw down until his cheeks press into the silk of Strahd’s clothing, the cold of his skin, smothering what little air Rahadin can draw. He grows rough. Thrusts in deep, draws choked, pleading sounds from Rahadin’s lips, and then ignores them.

There’s not much point fighting, and little inclination to do so. Strahd is everything. His word is law. His needs are Rahadin’s to fulfil.

He closes his eyes and lets the last of the air drain away. There is enough presence of mind left in him to hear Strahd’s parting murmur, as darkness fogs all else.

“You’ll do better next time.”

He will.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m told that the wine is corked.”

Strahd stands before the rows of wooden casks, hands folded in the small of his back. The smell of rot dissipated centuries ago, but the air retains a tang of metal, rusting iron bands embracing age-worn oak. Rahadin moves to stand next to him, considering the casks.

“I’d say that’s the least of its problems,” he comments. They’re almost fossilised, these casks. The stone floor is stained a deep and blood-like violet where the vintage was spilled unwanted. Years ago now. They have not needed it since.

Strahd acknowledges him with a small nod. “And yet, a Count should keep a wine cellar, should he not?”

“He could if he wished. But the local vintners have proven adequate, and the Count himself hasn’t ventured down into this cellar for quite some time.”

There are rat droppings under the casks, Rahadin notes with distaste. He supposes he’s as guilty of neglect as Strahd himself; why bother, when the barrels were last full when his master was still human, and there has been no need to replace them? There are so many other duties requiring his attention.

“It’s a pity.” Strahd runs a hand over the lip of a cask, finding the worn lettering seared into its top. “The _Champagne du le Stomp_ was an old family favourite. But I suppose most things fall out of fashion in time.”

There’s very little liking for wine in the castle these days. Rahadin alone is partial to it- and then only rarely. Although there are the guests to consider. His master’s irritatingly whimsical dinner parties have not yet fallen out of fashion, however much Rahadin would like them to.

“A new cellar could be established,” he says, and wonders how many casks he might manage to poison, how many visitors inexplicably do away with before his master catches on. Idle speculation; it would not to do harm a guest under Strahd’s protection. But a little fantasy never hurt anyone.

“No.” Strahd drags his claws over the lettering on the wine cask, the wood splintering easily, charcoal lettering smearing black across his fingertips. “The palate refines with age and experience; old favourites grow tiresome. I find myself inclined towards a different vintage these days.”

“I believe the dungeons can supply.” Strahd inclines his head in invitation and Rahadin calls up his mental inventory of the larders in their current state. “Several casks of delicate Barovian; one male in the eighteenth year, compliant in nature, with subtle undertones of despair; one female in her early twentieth, sullen, but I sense a few spirited notes if stirred correctly. We also have a foreign variety of unknown years, though I’d estimate early twenties. That one has suffered slight fog-burn during the harvest, which was only a day ago. I’ll be able to give a more accurate description of temperament in time, or you may wish to enjoy mystery for mystery’s sake. Would you like to see them?”

“Perhaps. What if I crave something more…matured?”

“In what sense?”

“How would you describe your own particular vintage?”

Rahadin’s mouth tightens before he can rein himself in. Irritation prickles. “Must I?”

His master doesn’t dignify him with an answer. There is the briefest of raised brows, a twitch of irritation at the corner of a lip; a canine briefly revealed. The order is implicit, and Rahadin obeys.

“Sharp,” he says in a tone to match temperament. “Reliably so. Elegant in manner and countenance, and certainly a vintage best used to emphasise your own excellent taste-”

“Left on the shelf unopened, you mean,” Strahd offers. He’s abruptly much closer, trapping Rahadin between the wine casks and his cold, unyielding chest. “Is that how you seek to serve me?”

The game continues. Traps laid, baited and left, snaring the unwary. Rahadin curbs his temper. He dislikes being a plaything. It won’t last, as none of Strahd’s amusements last, but it will prick at him all the same. Has Barovia grown so dull that no other sources will provide? Has he failed to stock the larders? Has the quality of his selections fallen so far that a fitting punishment has been found?

Not possible. His work is as good as it ever has been, and there is no need for him to take the place of the livestock.

“You are my master,” he says in a tone that passes for reasonable. “Your word is my command. You are the land, and every fruit in the land is yours to harvest and enjoy. But-”

Strahd hooks one long claw under his collar and pulls gently, baring Rahadin’s throat. The musty room is abruptly colder. His hands defy all warmth; the chill of them bleeds heat wherever they rest. “But you consider yourself above the onerous task of providing me with sustenance. Why?”

“I am-” _of higher value_ won’t win him any sympathy, but nothing else will either. This is a game like the one in the carriage; Strahd grows restless, and restlessness invokes a certain playful cruelty in him. It will pass. But for now, it seems Rahadin is to be his target. He resents that. Ravenloft bulges at the seams with brides and grooms and concubines. The dungeons are always stocked with freshly captured youth, each one heavy with soul, each one suitable for nothing more. “You may partake of my blood, of course. If I can better serve you as one of your vampire spawn then I submit to your will. You may turn me any time you please.”

“I’m not interested in turning you,” Strahd says lazily. “I hunger, and you bleed; a cycle as natural as that of dusk to dawn to dusk again. What do you think you’ll gain from fighting the natural order?” He drags a claw down Rahadin’s throat; the same that cracked the wine casks minutes before, and which now trails charcoal in ugly lines that bisect the jugular. Rahadin makes a sharp sound of frustration. Tilts his head, bares his throat. He’ll be made to either way.

“I’m not fighting,” he hisses. “You would know if I was.”

“I tremble at the thought.” Strahd mocks, of course, as is his right. The only blade Rahadin lifts is in his defence, or at his command. The only violence between them is this: the shock of his teeth parting the flesh of Rahadin’s neck, the slick spill of blood he frees to trickle into his parted lips and Rahadin’s collar.

The twin wounds sting. Then they ache, a deeper, more lethargic form of suffering that seeps through the bones of Rahadin’s neck and infects the muscles in his arms. He finds his fingers trembling. They fascinate him briefly; he can’t remember the last time his hands shook. Never in battle. Never in bed. But now they do so with such violence that he can barely grab for Strahd’s upper arms.

The bite was deep. He’s seen Strahd indulge with captives in the dungeons; a form of foreplay, a lingering, a sensual partaking that spans hours when it suits him. An art form of sorts. Rahadin has watched him. Lost time in doorways, caught on the verge of departure, captivated by the gradually fading struggle and the elegant bend of his master’s neck.

This is something else. He bleeds beyond what Strahd can lap from him, dripping unwanted to the stones at his feet.

“You will kill me if you don’t slow down,” he says with a calm so eerie it almost unnerves him. Blood loss; he’s bleeding dry. He recognises it, and does nothing more than grip Strahd’s arms and tilt his head a little further back.

“Not at all,” Strahd murmurs. He licks at the blood still spilling freely from Rahadin’s wounds. “And I’m a better judge of such things that you are, wouldn’t you agree?”

“If it’s sound judgment you seek, you should ask your chamberlain. Not your _meal_. Master.”

With a precision that can only be intended to insult Rahadin’s lack of strength, Strahd presses a kiss to the smeared red space between the puncture marks. “Hollow protests; all I taste from you is acquiescence. Perhaps a note or two of desire. Not that you’d admit it to yourself.”

The grey walls are blurring at the edges. A wooden cask presses into the small of Rahadin’s back; he imagines that he can feel it tilt. The wine-stained stone under his feet is unsteady. His heart is a hare’s, beating a frantic victim’s rhythm in a chest grown numb. Most of him is numb. There is just the ache of his bite, and the cold brush of Strahd’s lips on his throat.

It’s not so terrible. There’s a beauty of sorts to the slow loss of light, to the life Strahd laps from him. Rahadin still has the strength to raise one hand, resting it senseless on the back of Strahd’s head, fingers finding spaces between the black of his hair. He is faithful. He gives what is asked.

“Better,” Strahd says. When he laughs, there’s blood between his teeth, staining his smile. His eyes are black with the hunger that never quite leaves him. “As much as I enjoy your usual sharp self, a bit of compliance is pleasant on occasion. There, there, Rahadin. Relax. You will do that for me, won’t you?” His tone is low, red-clotted honey, seeping magic in every sound. It lends lethargy to Rahadin’s mind, though he knows more than most what’s being done. Strahd is charming when he wants to be. And Rahadin is faithful, always. He allows himself to be cast adrift.

On the stone floor beneath them, blood forms a slow-spreading pool, staining the wine stains in turn.

**Author's Note:**

> My insincere apologies to Tolkien for the quote I stole to write porn with.


End file.
